Page 7 of The Other Woman

“He was clean. Right, Eli?”

“As a whistle.”

“So how did the assassin know where he was going?”

“Maybe we should ask him.”

Gabriel dug his phone from his pocket and called Mikhail.

5

Floridsdorf, Vienna

The Passat sedan was equipped with Volkswagen’s newest version of all-wheel drive. A right turn at one hundred kilometers per hour on fresh snow, however, was far beyond its abilities. The rear tires lost traction, and for an instant Mikhail feared they were about to spin out of control. Then, somehow, the tires regained their grip on the pavement, and the car, with one last spasm of fishtailing, righted itself.

Mikhail lightened his hold on the armrest. “Have much experience driving in winter conditions?”

“A great deal,” replied Keller calmly. “You?”

“I grew up in Moscow.”

“You left when you were a kid.”

“I was sixteen, actually.”

“Did your family own a car?”

“In Moscow? Of course not. We rode the Metro like everyone else.”

“So you never actuallydrovea car in Russia in winter.”

Mikhail did not dispute Keller’s observation. They were back on the Taborstrasse, flashing past an industrial park and warehouse complex, about a hundred meters behind the motorcycle. Mikhail was reasonably acquainted with Vienna’s geography. He judged, correctly, that they were heading in an easterly direction. There was a border to the east. He reckoned they would need one soon.

The bike’s brake light flared red.

“He’s turning,” said Mikhail.

“I see him.”

The bike made a left and briefly disappeared from sight. Keller approached the corner without slowing. An ugly Viennese streetscape flowed sideways across the windscreen for several seconds before he was able to bring the car under control again. The motorcycle was now at least two hundred meters ahead.

“He’s good,” said Keller.

“You should see the way he handles a gun.”

“I did.”

“Thanks for the help.”

“What was I supposed to do? Distract him?”

Before them rose the Millennial Tower, a fifty-one-floor office-and-residential building standing on the western bank of the Danube. Keller’s speed approached a hundred and fifty as they crossed the river, and still the bike was slipping away. Mikhail wondered how long it would take the Bundespolizei to notice them. About as long, he reckoned, as it would take to pull a passport from the pocket of a dead Russian courier.

The bike disappeared around another corner. By the time Keller negotiated the same turn, the taillight was a prick of red in the night.

“We’re losing him.”

Keller pressed his foot to the floor and kept it there. Just then, Mikhail’s mobile pulsed. He took his eyes from the taillight long enough to read the message.